


Would That Time Return

by WhiteRoseOfRivendell



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, BotFA, Confused Thorin, Longing, M/M, Romantic Relationship, Slash, The feels, Time Travel, Young Thranduil, don't know what you got till its gone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 09:17:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8096527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteRoseOfRivendell/pseuds/WhiteRoseOfRivendell
Summary: Time is a perilous and fickle thing. It brings more pain than a dull sword, more tumult than a ship on a stormy sea, yet more opportunity than the most fortunate of circumstances. For Thorin Oakenshield, walking in the midst of his treasure held more joy and more angst than he had known in a long time. His relationships were fading into the darkness of Erebor and his mind turned unto itself. Chancing upon a small alcove in the very corner of the expanse, he looked for the Arkenstone, though found something much more valuable. It would soon be that Time would bring him a confusion, a happiness, and a love such that he would never know again...or perhaps...
Inspired by the book Bid Time Return & the movie it inspired Somewhere in Time.
~(Disclaimer: I own nothing. These characters and stories are not mine.)





	

 

The day was waning when he first discovered it. Hours it was, or perhaps days, he could not tell. He had been in the massive chamber searching for a length of time that he could not fathom in his current state. He had not slept. He had not eaten. The power lain over the gold was insurmountable. It begged him not to leave, even for a second; it would see him starve before its loneliness began. Down to the last piece, it needed him. The dragon's magic held fast, though its master fled to his doom. It cried out to any and all who would succumb, and Thorin harkened unto it. It compelled him to find it, to find every coin and jewel. And he would find that last piece, hidden though it may be.

He wandered, coins flitting down the golden hills beneath his boots. Echoes played on the massive walls, and he was comforted. By the farthest wall a cave, small and shadowed by the hoard, opened up to a passage. As he entered, he peered around. A sparkling well glittered more brightly than the the jewels behind him, but he could not see where the light came from to allow this to be possible. The water glowed in a way that he had not seen before, though his travels even in the smallest crevices of Erebor had been extensive. The gold feathered out from where the mass of it lay in the cavernous expanse. It trickled by his feet, mirroring the water of the luminescent well trickling down from a stalactite, sharp and impressive in the pall.

Thorin kicked at the coins. They were unruly and bereft of propriety. They should be back with their brothers as part of the hoard; his hoard. He wanted every bit of it. Every piece ought to be accounted for. How dare it seek refuge in this mouse hole whilst its king wandered its body of riches. Perhaps, he thought, this passage would lead him to the Arkenstone. Perhaps, he mused further, this is where it lies; its bound & beautiful resting place, hidden from the threat of exposure. After all, its value was more than that of any treasure in Middle Earth. It held the wealth & ownership of Erebor in its shining brilliance. Yes, this must be the place. His search would be over. So many years of searching....but were they years? Or was it days? He could not be sure. What mattered was that the Arkenstone would soon be found. This bread crumb trail of gold would certainly lead him to it, his most prized possession.

As he approached the diminutive pool, the lovely gold pieces grew sparse at his feet, so he was not overcome by speculation when the last of them teetered on the ledge just above the glowing blue. The light reflected upon it & Thorin tilted his head as if hearing a song from long ago, one that brought memories of beauty. He smiled, though he did not know why, and reached out his hand to grasp it. This piece, this lovely wretched piece, why did it fit so well in his hand? He thought of a time long ago when he looked to the sun and it was not so far away. The light it cast warmed his skin and asked for nothing but his happiness. He remembered grass beneath his head and swaying trees above it. The company surrounding him may have been of flesh or stone, but it calmed him. Through this little metal round, he felt the longing of a time long ago, one he did not previously remember.

Lost in his reverie, he stared at the gold piece.

"Long ago, so long ago."

The words spilled from his lips, flowing into the cave. They swirled up the walls in torrents. They fell upon the rocky ground in a fine mist. And they echoed in his ears; those fine dwarven ears that no longer listened for fell footsteps of thieves, nor the hushed voices of his kin as they discussed his madness for the Arkenstone's return. Those words, small and simple. Those words, a cyclone and storm against the stone walls. Those words, pulling his heart away and setting his mind to a search of another kind. The darkness settled in. He felt at rest, though no sleep befell him. His eyes slowly closed as the sound surrounding him became a dull hum, leaving him behind in blackness. But the words traveled with him.

"Long ago..."

 

➰➰➰➰➰

Thorin awoke disoriented. The surrounding brightness made him rub his eyes and squint as he attempted to open them. Though he could not see, it was apparent that he was somewhere else entirely. The cave's darkness had gone. The sun's kindness fell upon him and warmed his skin. It's rays stung his eyes, as they had grown accustomed to the peace of the torches in Erebor. Thorin brought his hands to his eyes once more to attempt their clearing. He realized that he still held his cherished gold piece in his fist and shoved it deep into his inner coat pocket. He did not know where he was and did not wish to be foolish, brandishing gold for all to see. At least his faculties were about him, even if he didn't know how or why he came to be here. Wherever here was. Thorin's eyesight slowly cleared and he sat up to look around. There was soft grass, a pale yellow green, though that may have been a trick of his eyes not yet back to full capacity. The whole of his current whereabouts were bright, glowing as if in a dream. A white haze hung in the air around him, reflecting the light from above. He could see tall, knotted trees surrounding him. They seemed to dance and repose in turn, the leaves softly shaking with mirth. Had he not known better, they would have reminded him of the Mirkwood trees as he imagined them to be before the pestilence. In a time when it was still the Greenwood, under a more honorable rule. He looked up, still wary, but strangely curious. This land set about him a countenance that was not himself. Though the gold coin sat safely in his pocket, he did not feel its influence. Though he was in an unknown land by no force of his own, he was not ill at ease. If someone were to tell him he was in a dream, he may have been inclined to believe them. He felt about the rock ledge that rose several feet beside him. It was smooth and mossy, as if a river had once run along it, caressing its boundaries until it's cares were worn away and it smiled at the water's tickle.

Water, indeed he now heard it. Looking to his right, he found that he had fallen by a brook's edge. Had he fallen? The brook reminded him of the small pool that he had stumbled upon in his search of the Arkenstone. It too was a cool, serene blue, and it sparkled in the mist's filtered light. Perhaps just an echo of the river it once was, moulding the strong rock ledge, and diminishing before it wore too much away.

Where was the cave? And the pool? How did he come to this place?

He shook his head.

In the distance, a sudden rustling stole his attention and his old countenance returned. Beautiful and tranquil though this land may be, he was still there by an unknown reason. He knew not where he was or why. Danger could lurk close by and he must seek his answers if there was any hope of return to his mountain. His mountain. By Mahal, he hoped it had not been long since he had left. Had time passed since he made his mysterious departure? Had the company discovered his absence? He thought of his nephews. They would feign strength, but he knew they had come to rely on their uncle. They were young and had many years of grooming yet. Would Fili rise to the throne? Of course he would, with Kili by his side, no doubt. Thorin loved how Fili had always taken his younger brother under his wing. They were nigh inseparable, those two. What would they think of their uncles disappearance?

And Dwalin? His closest friend. He wished he were here with him now. Dwalin was a force to be reckoned with. Balin too, though his strength came in his wit. A trusted advisor was he, and if anyone would have been able to figure out what was going on, it would be Balin. But his company was not with him now. They were safe in the Halls of Erebor, he hoped. Perhaps they would discover his absence and send a party to search for their lost King. Though, if it indeed had not been very long, they may not even know he had left the cavern. It was quite expansive and he had shut himself in it for a long while. The company came to see him less and less, keeping their distance as he barked orders to find his precious Arkenstone.

They do not know, he decided, and they will not come.

Balancing himself, Thorin rose quietly and peered around. Though cautious of his surroundings, he had yet to cease marveling in the glory of the forest. The rustling had stopped and he was satisfied that it was only the scurrying of some small creature. He slowly walked around the rock ledge to where it sloped down and met with the embankment. There he drank his fill of water from the stream, not knowing where he might again find another, and scaled the sloping green. At the top, the forest continued to stretch on for much further than he could see. The trees faded into the daylight; a cool, glowing mist obscured the foliage, though the day was quite warm. Thorin looked to see where the sun was in the sky, but the canopy offered no assistance. So he was obliged to guess that it was not yet midday.

No path was visible in his vicinity, so he chose an easterly direction. It was the direction he had followed for so long, it seemed natural for him to continue. He hoped to find the edge of this place and gaze upon The Lonely Mountain. He knew this thinking was folly. This forest did not lie on any border of his kingdom, or anywhere else he had ever traveled; so strange it was. As he walked, he racked his mind. He had never been in this forest & yet, it drew familiar for him. The trees followed his footfalls, as if leaning in to hear his thoughts. Their gnarled branches guided him, opening the way.

In his mind he knew these trees did not serve him, however welcoming their arms unfurled. And he knew from decades of experience that he was now being followed. Whoever it was was skilled and light of foot, camouflaged amongst his or her sage friends. Thorin moved his hand to grasp the hilt of his sword. His other hand moved back, ready to brandish the short sword at his back with one swift move.

"Lost are we, Master Dwarf?" Came the quizzical voice from his left.

He swung himself toward it, pulling his sword, crouched in defense. He saw nothing.

"How come you to this wood, so armed and... ready for battle, if I should hazard a guess?"

Thorin looked now to his right, wondering if his ears had deceived him, but this was no trickery of the forest. There, crouched on a branch just out of reach, was an elf. Lithe and long his limbs were, as if an extension of the tree itself. One arm hung on the branch above, though Thorin suspected that he did not need it to balance. The other held a carved longbow, delicately ornate but strong, as all elven works. His elbow rested on his knee, poised and relaxed. He did not appear to care that he was in the middle of a confrontation with an enemy. Swaying a bit, he peered at Thorin from a curious brow.

"Why would I not arm myself? I might chance upon an enemy," Thorin looked the elf up and down with spite. Something in him brought about a memory, but he could not yet place it. Though he did not in his heart feel that this elf was there to engage him in a fight, his guard remained up. His stance did not change. This being before him was still an elf, and therefore could not be trusted.

The lithe figure nimbly hopped down from the tree and landed in front of Thorin. Rising to his full height, he towered over the dwarf, but Thorin paid the advantage no mind. They stood there for a moment in utter silence, scrutinizing each other. Thorin's face was hard and unyielding as he studied the young elf. His eyes held the color of the water on a clear day, and just as much depth. It was like looking over a precipice into a valley that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was the expanse of the sky above with music on the wind. Thorin drew a breath despite himself. They were the eyes of one who had lived fully and gained wisdom. They held no hate, no remorse, no aggression. It struck the dwarf as quite a strange sight, but he moved on. For the characters lips curled up at the side in a smirk that was familiar. Hair of gold fell about his face, the usual braids and adornments absent, except for...a circlet. Yes, Thorin saw it now, simple and beautiful just above his brow. It's winding tendrils were so thin and polished to a silvery shine that he did not notice it before. This elf was royalty. He was...

"Thranduil."

The name escaped his lips in a whisper and quite by accident. The weight of his realization so heavy on his tongue he could scarcely afford breath. This was not possible. The elf before him was much younger and did not smack of the icy disposition and arrogance of the Elvenking that he knew, but it was him. And this place, this was not the Mirkwood he and his company traversed only a few months past; the gnarled, grey, wretched wood that hosted overgrown arachnids and stunk of Orc filth. This place was light, beautiful, and full of hope. The Woodland Realm of old. It could not be, and yet, here he stood.

Thranduil turned his head, "I do not believe I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance Master Dwarf, though you seem to have had mine."

"I have had...." He then thought better of his response, "I have had many dealings with your kind, enough to know of your treachery. I do not pretend to think you my friend."

Though their two peoples had dealings whose outcomes were not amicable, Thranduil did not yet hold any animosity toward dwarven kind that would cause conflict upon a chance meeting. His expression turned to that of confusion, at least as much as his stoic face would afford. For he was as beautiful as carved alabaster, his expressions held mostly in his eyes and, if one were so lucky as to catch it, the curve of his roguish mouth.

"You are a curious one, " he countered, "What is your name, Master Dwarf?"

Thorin hesitated. Surely his name would be of no consequence at this point. Thranduil, if that is who he really was, had no knowledge of him. He clearly was not yet the ruler of his kingdom, and if this were but a dream, it would not matter in the slightest. Thorin mused for a minute and decided to give out information sparingly. He still did not fully understand what was going on here or why. It would be foolish to reveal too much. Perhaps this was a trick of the dragon's curse over the gold. Perhaps the cave he had wandered into in search of his prize was ridden with poisonous gas and he had fallen under a deep spell of hallucination. Nevertheless, he had to respond soon. His adversary was staring at him in all his curiosity.

"Thorin," he purposefully left out his title and line, " I am called Thorin."

The elf smiled and bowed, his right fist to his chest, " Then I am honored to meet you Thorin, even if you do not reveal the totality of who you are."

He strolled to a nearby rock and sat, beckoning Thorin to sit on the rock beside him. His bow was carefully laid against his side, standing at the ready, as was his training. Thorin, wanting more information and realizing that this was probably his best chance to get it, reluctantly sat beside Thranduil.

"Where is it you travel from, Master Thorin?"

"Thorin," he cut off, "You may call me Thorin."

Thranduil allowed a small smile to play on his lips, " Thorin," he repeated.

Thorin had never seen the Elvenking like this. He was open, light, as if the troubles of the Middle Earth were not his own and burdens of his past did not haunt his steps. He struggled to remember, in this strange world of seemingly magical happenings, that this was the very elf that left his people to die. An elf that turned his back at the moment he was needed the most and then had him imprisoned while on his quest to reclaim his birthright. This elf, that sits before him now in all his innocence and splendor would grow to become his most hated enemy. And yet, here they are, in the midst of a glowing wood, talking as if nothing had transpired between them. Because, in all reality, if that's what this was, it had not.

"I travel alone," he started rather brusquely. He had never been especially versed in creating lies on demand, "I suppose you could say I am in search of something I lost."

Thranduil narrowed his eyes, though his voice and demeanor did not change,"I can see that you do not trust me. Tell me, the events that transpired between your people and mine, can they not be put aside even for a polite midday conversation? Have you not heard of the success of our two peoples in Khazad-dûm? I hear the Western Gate is a sight to behold. "

Thorin drew in a long breath. This was difficult. He did not know what was going on and did not want to reveal too much. However, this elf before him was seemingly not privy to any information that he himself possessed. Still, he was an elf and a traitor to the dwarves. And, he thought, this could be some sort of trick, an enchantment set upon him.

"Thranduil," the name came out strained after so many decades of cursing it, "In truth, I have come upon this place quite by accident. Tell me, what is an elf prince doing out this far in the Mirkwood?"

"Mirkwood?" The name was visibly foreign on his lips, "I believe you are mistaken, Thorin. This is the Greenwood, second only in its beauty to Lorien. And I often escape the confines of my home to wander. I cannot stand to be isolated as my father might have me. I may not have the centuries that he possesses, but I understand the way of rule. One cannot fully maintain a kingdom when one is shut inside its borders," he sighed and turned to Thorin, " I do not expect you to know of the burden," he turned his head toward the canopy, as if searching for escape.

"I believe this is a point worn true with time, whether I have experienced the burden of a throne or not," Thorin replied,

The two looked at each other.

They sat for a moment in silence, the hum of the Greenwood encompassing them. It was awkward and unsettling. There was an air of hostility, mostly on the part of the brooding dwarf, but there was also a strange charge. It was the feeling one experiences when meeting another for the first time, an excitement of the unknown. Thorin could not reconcile this feeling. He knew Thranduil; for long years his name and face had haunted his mind, trapped in a cage of betrayal. He was not unknown to him, and yet, this elf that sat beside him was not wholly familiar either.

"Why do you stare at me so?" Thranduil asked in a low voice, obviously a bit unnerved. It struck Thorin as odd. This king, or future king, of elves was acting plain, almost stilted.

"You remind me of someone I knew, long ago."

There it was, those words. He remembered them resounding in the cave. He remembered how they flowed through him, taking him away. Perhaps not far in distance, but in time. This must be the Second Age, he thought, somewhere in a time of peace. Knowing this now, Thorin thought it even more prudent to keep his identity a secret. Who knows what events occurred in the time before. Only stories and legends passed down from father to son remained. He had treated with elves before, but only superficially, as he remembered. His life before the fall of Erebor sometimes seemed devoid of detail. As if his thirst for revenge had drawn a thin veil over his past, shadowing all happiness that came before.

"My apologies, I should take my leave," Thorin began to rise.

Thranduil rose as well, straightening his dark green tunic, "You are welcome, Thorin Unknown, to break your journey and rest awhile in my father's kingdom. There is plenty food and wine, which I'm sure a dwarf such as yourself would appreciate. We are to celebrate Austalendë in under a fortnight," he faltered. His invitation was meant to fulfill his obligation of royalty. His delivery was polished, yet bold with a hint of facetiousness. He looked Thorin in the eye as he smiled faintly. It was a restrained, abashed smile and Thorin recognized it from the Halls of Erebor. When Thranduil and his entourage met with his grandfather Thror in the grand throne room. Then, he had found the smile striking, yet gracious. But the smile had faded once the jewels had been set before the great Elvenking, replaced with what Thorin could only assume was avarice. In this moment, however, he found the smile intriguing and waited for the young elf to regain his equanimity.

"I must apologize; I speak familiar to you and we have but met. My father sees my presumption as arrogance. I suppose I live up to the title."

If you only knew, Thorin thought, but he softened and allowed a small smile of his own to show on his otherwise stoic face.

"Thorin Unknown?" That was something that he had never truly been. He almost liked the idea, trying it on as he would a new cloak, "I take no offense, though I cannot accept your invitation."

Thranduil knew this dwarf did not trust him and held some fierce disapproval toward his kind, so it did not surprise him that Thorin refused. However, he had hoped to spend some small amount of time with this enigmatic dwarf from unnamed places. He had been bored of late. The confines of the wood did nothing to foster his blooming disposition. He tired of days ridden with diplomacy and monotony. He had friends among his people, but lacked a certain closeness that he craved. At one point he had thought himself unapproachable, for he was no Silvan elf and his manner was often seen as superior. There was not much to be done about it. It was his birthright and with silver gold hair crowning his impressive height, he tended to stand out among his companions. Still, his feelings ran deep and were often overlooked as his facade betrayed his true nature.

The invitation was tempting as a means for respite, though he would be in the company of loathsome elves. However, Thorin's mind was no longer focused solely on the feud between elf and dwarf. He needed time to find a way back; he needed time to think. He could not very well walk into the heart of Mirkwood, or rather the Greenwood, and spend time with immortals, lest he be found out. If Thranduil was still alive in the Third Age, how many of the elves in his kingdom had survived as well? If he interfered at the wrong time, it could change the course of history, however small. Perhaps he could change history for the better, he thought, make it so Smaug never took the mountain, or his grandfather never insulted the elves. He could make it so that they remained in good standing and Thranduil would help the dwarves of Erebor in their dire need. But time was a fickle thing, and revealing the future may not succeed in anything but his own undoing. There were forces at work during this time that would gladly hold a fore-seer in chains and work out every secret, no matter how loudly the screams of pain echoed. It was all too much to consider and Thorin found himself shaking his head once more.

Thranduil was staring at him again, and he realized that the elf had said something and was awaiting a response. He cleared his throat, trying to bide himself some time.

"My journey may be long, would you allow me safe passage through your kingdom? I do remember it being rather large and I will have to make camp."

Though this was not an answer to the question that Thranduil had asked, he seemed satisfied nonetheless, "Of course, while you are in the Greenwood you will not be detained and no harm will come to you. You have my word, such that it is."

"Thank you, Thranduil Greenleaf, I shall not forget your hospitality."

With that, Thorin and Thranduil parted ways. Thorin continued his journey east, though he knew not his destination. Thranduil walked up the branch of an obliging oak and looked back one last time at the stranger disappearing into the trees. He smiled plainly, thinking of the peculiar dwarf and the subsequent exchange.

"Namárië, Thorin Unknown."

➰➰➰➰➰

When the sun fell below the horizon, Thorin found a place to camp beside an old oak tree. Its roots spread out like a circle and it's branches were low lying. It was enclosed, protected. It felt like a little bit of home; not that the caves of his mountain had been his home for many a year, but his heart always regarded it as his true home. He remembered the little off-shoot of the caverns that got him into this quandary in the first place. He wondered how he was to ever return. Thorin then wondered if he would have to find Gandalf or Radagast, or another of the great wizards to aid him. Where would he find them? They were immortal and mostly wandered the lands was his understanding. Perhaps if he did not find Gandalf in the East, he would head back to the region where they had encountered Radagast on their way to the Lonely Mountain.

He poked at the fire. It's warmth was comforting in this place where all else was uncertain. He pondered upon why he was sent to this time, this place. A moments thought of why and his mind brought him to Thranduil. His hatred remained, and yet this meeting, whether by chance or otherwise, had affected him. Thranduil's face remained in his thoughts, and not as he normally would entertain it. This Thranduil was different. Thorin was intrigued by the absence of complete arrogance and unyielding apathy. For so many years he had thought of the elf as nothing but his enemy. Before that, he had scarcely known of the Elvenking; yet tales of his isolation and ruthless indifference reached far beyond the borders of these lands. What had happened to change him to the vile figure atop his noble mount?

Lying there beneath the dark canopy, Thorin's eyes grew heavy with sleep. The breeze blew aromas of mallos and alfirin, which he surmised grew nearby, though he had not yet seem their blooms. It lulled him into a deep sleep, and there he lay resting as if a thousand years had passed without respite.

He was no stranger to the chill of the morning dew, nor the pale light cast through the trees as the sun rose to greet his careworn face, but this morning held none of the routine occurrences. A fire burned next to him and a blanket was tucked about his body, covering up to his ear. It was not a heavy blanket, yet he was very warm and comfortable. This was a welcome indulgence from the long road of recent months. He nestled in further, enjoying the feeling of being wrapped in softness, the years of exhaustion leaving him. He was not fully awake yet, and there was a part of him that did not wish to be.

Until he remembered, he was not in a place of safety & comfort. This was the mysterious Woodland Realm in the Second Age of Middle Earth. He had not gone to sleep with these luxuries. He was up and on his haunches in a minute's time, scanning the forest around him. Surely one who would give such comforts to a stranger meant him no harm; yet there was danger and treachery lurking in even the most kind of acts. He had not lived to see the battles fought against Morgoth, nor experience the twisting of the elves into the abject creatures infesting Dol Guldur. These battles had been fought, against fire-drake and cold alike, against Balrog and orc. The deceit was consummate and the evil ripe. The peoples of this age had lived through it or died defending the good, so that the people of his time had a chance. A chance to live in light, a chance to grow trees in their gardens, raise their sons in honour, and even journey on a perilous quest to regain their homeland.

Indeed, he had misjudged in aspects of his hatred for the immortals. When Thranduil spoke of battle against dragons, Thorin wanted to scoff and spit at his feet. At the time, he had felt that the Elvenking deserved such and had no empathy for him. Now, though not faced directly with the evils that inhabited this age, he understood the threat and the way of life of people who lived in the shadow of Morgoth.

He looked from side to side, and turned fully in a circle. He slowly moved to the edges of his camp and warily searched for any intruder. He found none. Only half satisfied, he began to prepare to continue on. He rolled the blanket, snuffed out the fire, and started on his way. Perhaps, he thought, Thranduil had brought him the blanket. That elf, what interest should he have in the matters of a dwarf?

"Meddlesome, tiresome elf," Thorin said to himself, but smiled inwardly.

He hoped that he might find food, or spot a few rabbits before noon. He realized that he had not eaten since he arrived here and his stomach rumbled in protest. He walked east. His road was peaceful and he did find a large bramble of blackberries. Stopping to pick what he could, his hands were soon mottled between dark juices and crimson welts from the thorn-ridden branches. His hunger was not sated, but it eased the pains of want. He had nothing to carry spare food in, so he picked a large leaf and wrapped up what berries it would hold. Water may become an issue, however. The sun would be high soon and though the trees afforded quite a lot of shade, the day would be warm. Thirst was already beginning to plague him. Thorin walked for a while longer, but decided he would need to find a stream or pool that he might quench his thirst. He headed north; he thought the brook where he awoke might run parallel to his path. He hoped that it would open to a river the likes of which he imagined shaped the mossy rocks beside it.

Indeed, he found it. The river ran in small torrents, rushing to he knew not where. It seemed to be ignorant of its fate not far below, diminished into a mere trickle in a sea of green. Thorin knelt down at the water's edge and cupped his hand, plunging it into the cool water and allowing it to cover his mouth as he drank. He removed his overcoat, setting it on a nearby rock along with his sword. The short sword he kept on his belt, in the event an unwanted visitor should approach. He removed his tunic and shirt as well, discarding them next to him. He was not comfortable fully bathing in the river, for his senses must be focused on the air and sound surrounding him.

The water felt wonderful against his warm skin. He brushed it up his arms and behind his neck, reveling in the feeling. He had forgotten the feeling of being clean. The search for the Arkenstone and the quest preceding it had not afforded him many chances. He longed to immerse himself in the swirling blue, but unlike the blanket given to him this morning, it was one luxury he could not afford. He finished quickly, finger-combing his hair while he waited for his chest and arms to dry. The sun was looming now in the midday sky. It cast its rays down upon the quiet wood. He remembered this veil of light from his awakening yesterday. It had the same affect of disguising the forest's landscape as a dream. This whole place seemed to be a dream, he thought, one he wished he would wake up from. Thorin dressed quickly and gathered his bed roll. He decided to follow the river, for it appeared to run in the same direction as his travels.

Thorin walked along, still pondering his predicament. As he did, he searched for some small creature unfortunate enough to stop by the river to drink. What was once a flowing body now became akin to the brook of his acquaintance, and it was at twilight that he finally found a rabbit in the brush. He killed the poor creature with his short sword and carried it by its ears as he searched for a place to clean and cook it for his supper. The wood had taken on the haze of transition; a light bereft of shadow that comes when day hands its reigns over to the night. It was a strange blue that slowly darkened until the fireflies beckoned and the crickets sang their praises. This night, unfortunately, it's beauty would go unnoticed.

Body fatigued and mind preoccupied, Thorin built a hasty fire and made short work of preparing the rabbit for his meal. He was grateful for the sustenance, eating the entirety of the animal and finishing the blackberries he had gathered earlier. It was not wise to finish the only food he had, and he knew it, but he was weary from the days walk and longed for a proper dinner.

After he finished, he laid down, wrapped in his blanket. Thinking of the road ahead, his mind wandered. This place was incredible compared to the rancid forest he and his company had traversed. He wondered what else lie ahead. It would be days before he would find the edge of the Greenwood. He was anxious to reach it. The sooner he left this place, the sooner he could find one of the wizards he sought. It was his hope that they would be able to help him. As he saw it, it was his only hope.

The night passed uneventfully. He awoke and opened his eyes to birds chirping high above and the sun's rays shining though the trees. Though pleasant, he had rather hoped his eyes would see the jagged walls of Erebor and the embers of torches lining the passages. How he missed the towering pillars and carved adornments, the marble and alabaster smooth as the finest silk. He thought of the mithril veins plunging into the abysses and the songs of the dwarves as they mined night and day. In the right passages, their songs could be heard at any time. Thorin remembered walking there when his mind was heavy with burdens. At times, he was unable to sleep and he would sit on one scarcely traveled path high above the mine shafts. His feet hung over the side, and the low voices echoed in the deep. He was never afraid of the height. The void filled with music and it comforted him like nothing he had found since.

Thorin stood and rubbed the sleep and the memories from his eyes. He sighed and gathered himself to once again head East. He had not gone far when he came upon an embankment that ran along a stone ledge. Its polished face was all too familiar and his resolve sank when he recognized it's smooth, mossy surface. His face went blank with confusion and his mouth hung open slightly.

"Lost again are we, Thorin Unknown?"

Thorin froze at the sound of Thranduil's voice. His shoulders tensed and he cursed himself inwardly. Turning slowly, his head leading the charge, he saw his rival, leaning against a tree. A smug look regarded him. This was definitely more of the Thranduil he knew, and strangely, that assuaged him. He looked in the direction he was headed, frustrated and at a loss for words.

"I..."

"Don't be disconcerted; the Greenwood has turned around many a traveler."

"I am no mere traveler. I am..." he stopped, "I should not be lead astray by a trifling elven wood."

"And yet, here you are. My trifling elven kingdom and it's passages have evaded the Great Thorin Unknown," he jeered, "Perhaps what is truly unknown is your way home," he laughed mischievously.

The dwarf bristled at his impish smile and launched himself at the young elf. Grabbing him by his dark green tunic, he held him against the tree, bringing their faces close, "What do you know of it? You who stalk around unseen and smile even as I struggle. Young, arrogant, impertinent arse of an elf! I will not be the receiver of jibes. Leave me to my journey; I have never asked for your company."

He released Thranduil, who was quite taken aback at the outburst. There were not many who dared speak to him that way, being the son of Oropher. He stood tall and straightened his tunic, peering down at his acquaintance. It was all in jest and yet he had overstepped some boundary that he was unaware of. Normally, he would not bend, but he felt the desperation in the dwarf's reaction. He knew not why, but he felt compelled to make it right.

"I...apologize Master Thorin. I did not mean offense," his face was open. The arrogance had all but disappeared and sincerity was what remained. Thorin remembered this look as well. He had seen it before when he and his entourage visited Erebor, just before the dragon fire. He could not put his finger on the exact moment he had seen it, merely that he knew this look, and he was pleased to see it again.

He sighed heavily, "You are forgiven, Thranduil Greenleaf. And I apologize as well, though you are as frustrating as your homeland," Thorin smiled. It was his first real smile since he had arrived in this confounded place, "Please, call me Thorin."

"Thank you, Thorin," he smiled back a brilliant smile that made Thorin soften in spite of himself. The elf had been nothing but civil, if a bit antagonistic. He was finding himself liking this incarnation of Thranduil.

Thorin looked to the grass, and for a moment counted the blades as he thought, "I have traveled far, and this setback does not sit well with me," he meant it as an explanation, though he suspected none was required.

"Come with me," the elf implored, "Rest in my house, regain your health, and I will help you find your way when you wish to leave."

Thorin considered the offer. To stay in hospitality among the elves was unthinkable. He sighed.

Thranduil's face fell and his eyes looked down his nose at the ground. He could not understand why this dwarf took such issue with him when he was only trying to help him on with his journey. He decided on a new tactic.

"Then I will stay with you."

Thorin scoffed, "What?"

"You obviously have a deep seated issue with my kind and will not accept our hospitality. I do not pretend to know why, however you have proven that you cannot traverse the Greenwood on your own, and I cannot allow you to wander until you find death or dismemberment. So I will stay with you."

His words were condescending, but his eyes remained kind.

"Why do I interest you so?" Thorin asked in vexation.

"Perhaps I am bored," he looked away in apparent disinterest, "or perhaps I have a proclivity for lost causes," he turned back to Thorin and revealed that same small smirk from their previous encounter, looking out from beneath his brow.

"I am no babe in the woods; I can find my own way," Thorin responded in a low, foreboding voice, staring daggers into the elf before him.

Thranduil took a step, his long, lean leg coming to rest on an exposed root as he raised his arms, motioning around him. Obviously he implied evidence to the contrary. Thorin had traveled in one large circle and wasted more than a days time. Not that Thranduil was concerned about this. With the surly dwarf glowering at him, he was rather amused. This was a challenging adversary, something out of the ordinary to occupy his time. And his face could not have made his thoughts more clear.

Thorin sighed and threw his own arms up in exasperation, "You may accompany me, if that be your wish."

With that, he stalked off once more toward the East. Thranduil followed, using his impressive stride to catch up with his new companion in but a few paces.

"Where are you headed?"

"Away from this cursed forest, and its inhabitants," Thorin replied, his belligerence half feigned.

Thranduil turned and walked backwards in front of Thorin, moving effortlessly across the landscape.

"Stop that," Thorin grumbled.

"I am merely walking," Thranduil said innocently.

Thorin only sighed and continued at his pace. He did not understand why Thranduil had taken such an interest in him. It would have been much easier if he had left him to find his own way out of the Greenwood. However, he must note, if only to himself, that he had become turned around and did not wish to waste any more time attempting to exit this land. He had a mission to accomplish. He was needed in Erebor, in his own time.

"You really must learn to relax, Thorin Unknown," Thranduil offered. He went back to walking at Thorin's side. They walked a long time in silence. If he was going in the wrong direction, Thorin supposed that his companion would have pointed it out. He seemed so apt in that way. He doubted if anything escaped his immortal scrutiny. No wonder he had been able to keep his kingdom and people in safety though times waxed and waned perilous.

"Will you not be missed at home?" Thorin queried.

"I will send word," he replied nonchalantly.

"Do you not have duties to perform as ki...as prince?"

"There is nothing pressing that requires my attention. We are at peace, for the moment. My father will be occupied with preparations for Austalendë, and we are not to receive the delegates from the North for another month's time. "

"It sounds as if you do not occupy your time with anything of importance," Thorin stated harshly.

"On the contrary, I believe I am occupying myself with something of great importance."

Thranduil smiled again, a real smile. Thorin never remembered him smiling so brightly, so genuinely. In his long but distant acquaintance with the Elvenking, he had never known him to show almost any sign of happiness. Well, almost any...he thought. The memories were fragmentary now, swirling in his head like a whirlpool. The details of his past were always veiled, but now they were positively obscure. He wondered if they were truly his own. He felt as if there were things surfacing that he was watching as an outsider. Thorin remembered a face, and breath close upon his. He remembered golden hair upon his fingertips, and the smell of Mountain Misery upon soft skin.

He shook his head, willing the strange memory away.

"Are you quite well?" Thranduil asked.

"Yes, I am fine."

The rest of the afternoon passed amicably and soon they were settling down in front of a crackling fire. The sun was nearly gone from the sky, leaving a swath of orange and yellow in its wake. Thranduil had disappeared for a time and returned with a few types of odd-looking fruits. They tasted well enough, and Thorin was starving. They ate in silence. The music of the wood accompanied their meal with brazen movements. One might think it a capriccio and it delighted the two. Thorin always like the sounds he encountered in nature, at least when they were only that. Listening for an Orc pack or scavengers was much less enjoyable. His company this time, however, was affable and he felt himself not minding so much having the elf along. The deeds long hated among his people were now a thing of the future instead of the past. Still, it pulled at the back of his mind as he studied Thranduil's alabaster face, lit up by firelight.

"Have you seen much battle in your time, Greenleaf?"

Thranduil looked at Thorin in amusement, "I have never had a byname before," he smiled, "I have always been called Thranduil. Greenleaf...I think I rather like it," He chuckled and looked back to the fire, "Yes, I have seen some battle. I do not wish to see more, however my life is a long one and the world is changing..."

"As it tends to do," Thorin finished.

Thranduil looked at him, brow furrowed and lips in a thin line, "Yes," he said solemnly, "As it tends to..." his breath hitched and he lifted his somber face to the sky.

"Now I must ask, are you quite well?" Thorin leaned forward to get Thranduil's attention, but the elf did not release his gaze from the darkness above.

"I do not expect a dwarf to understand. We are immortal. My life has barely begun in comparison to what it will be. You are grown, with what your kind views as a life of experience. It is but a moment. The strands of your hair fade like tendrils of age around your face and yet you hold tightly to your youth. It matters to you because one day, it will be gone. You change, and the world changes. We do not change. My hair will not fall from my head, nor change in color. My skin will not show signs of time's wrath upon it. My body will be strong, appearing young, though my heart grows mature. You are the opposite, and it seems a more compelling life. Change...it is hardly a thing of importance among the elves, for we endure, heedless of it."

"I think that I am beginning to understand time and change in a much more intimate way of late," Thorin replied, rolling his eyes, "It is a bain," He stood and stretched, removing his tunic as he did so. The fire had become quite warm and it was not a particularly chilled evening. He settled back down and poked at the embers.

"What change have you seen? May I ask what battles scar you that you carry such bitter thoughts?"

Thorin crossed his arms in front of his chest, a hard look appearing on his face, "I have seen change. I have seen suffering beyond what I would expect you, an immortal, to understand. You do not hold things dear because regardless of what it is, it will leave you or you will leave it. And you regard this as part of the change, as a part of the natural order of life. You do not know change. I hold on to what I love as the Eagles wings are held by the wind. I have seen my home burned and my people screaming in pain and misery. I have seen betrayal by those I thought were friends at a time when I was frightened..."

He stopped. He had never admitted to anyone before that the day Smaug's reign in Erebor began in a cloud of flame, that he was frightened. He had never spoken of any of it, save for what was known in the stories told across Middle Earth. He should not have been afraid. He should have known what to do, but he did not. And in his panic, dwarves died.

The words hung in the air, thick and laden with implication. Thranduil realized that Thorin had just conceded a great secret, yet in doing so, he had insulted the elves. He rose, and moving toward the dwarf, spoke quietly but forcefully, "Do you imply that elves do not feel suffering nor fear?" He was close to Thorin now, looking down in a commanding grace, "Do you think I do not feel it?" He whispered, bending down to close the space between them.

A strange surge drove through Thorin and he breathed out quickly. He was closer to Thranduil than he had ever been and the sensation was unexpected. He did not feel repulsed by the elf. The sincerity in his manner was honorable and genuine. It was challenging and forthright. It was becoming easier to remind himself that this was not yet the Elvenking that had left his people to die by the scourge of Erebor. This elf's time was short upon Middle Earth, relatively. He had not the years of practice at being a complete bastard and Thorin found it difficult to fault him for it now.

Thorin saw the look of bewilderment on Thranduil's face at his comments. He wondered how his companion could be so hurt by his words when they were barely acquainted. It did not matter; he wanted the look gone, erased from existence on the beautiful face before him. It did not belong there. Thranduil was proud, arrogant, he was not supposed to look vulnerable. He stood, bringing them even closer, though Thranduil retreated slightly.

"I apologize, Thranduil," their faces were close. The elf's breath grazed his cheek like the back of a caring hand, "Fear does not discriminate. There are things you fear?"

It was meant as a question, but it came out as more of a statement.

Their eyes were locked together now, the fire reflecting in the dark recesses. Neither dared to speak a word in those moments.

Thranduil broke the silence with his slow reply, "I fear myself."

With that, he turned and Thorin watched him walk away into the woods. The camp once again was silent and he stood motionless in the midst of it.

➰➰➰➰➰

The morning came and went. Thranduil had returned some time during the night. Thorin had heard him, light footed as he was, slipping back into the camp. He found the elf resting against a tree and did his best not to disturb him, as he knew he could not have gotten but a few hours sleep. He did not know how long elves were meant to sleep, but he could tell by the look on his companion's face and the tilt of his eyes after awakening that he was not at his peak today. Something was bothering him. Thorin was not inclined to ask after the confrontation last night. Words had been exchanged in heated moments that arose by pure accident. He did not mean to offend, but he often found it difficult to imagine the elf with any true feelings, cold, calculating, and arrogant being that he knew him to be. And again, he was reminded that this was not the Thranduil of his Age. He seemed to feel things deeply. Thorin did not understand. Perhaps the elf held his resentment still, though Thorin thought this absurd as he was little more than a traveling companion. The battle still waged within him and so he remained silent as they prepared for the day. After having a small meal of forest fare, they had headed out once again.

"It may behoove us both if you told me your destination," said Thranduil coolly.

"Is it not your objective to see me to the edge of your kingdom?" Thorin replied.

"I could better assist your journey if I knew where you are headed. You go East. What is it that lies beyond the eastern border that is of interest to you?"

His answer must be safe; it must not give away any secrets or arouse suspicion, "It is none of your concern. I make my way East, that is all you must know."

"Is this to be our discourse, my Unknown friend? Given to secrecy and acrimonious exchange? You disappoint me."

Thorin looked at Thranduil in shock and annoyance, "I disappoint you? Who are you that I must vy against your ego? I did not ask you on this quest and yet you demand answers. Friend," he mocked, "You have never known the meaning of the word. For the decades I have known you, you have served none but yourself," His confusion and frustration were at a boiling point. This situation that he found himself in was overwhelming. He wanted to be home, in his own time. He wanted to see Fili and Kili, to sit and smoke with his company, to see Bilbo in all his mild temperament. The wood went on and on, further than seemed possible to escape. Thorin did not know where he was going. His destination was unknown, and yet he could not ask his fellow traveler for help. He could not allow him to know where, or rather when, he was from. He was hungry and weary from stress. He was accustomed to hating the very elf that walked beside him, whom he now found to be engaging and likable, despite his infuriating quips. Understanding left him completely. He did not want to speak for fear of betraying himself, but he was lost in time and his mind could not process it.

Thranduil opened his lips to speak, but closed them again, a thought playing in his golden crowned head. He looked to his dwarf companion, a dubious demeanor descending upon him.

"How many decades?"

Thorin looked up from his reverie, out of breath from his rant, "What?"

Suddenly, his feet fell from under him. Mud and grass swirled about him, guiding him down the bank. He had not noticed that he was standing on an overhang beside the very river where his journey began. The ground slid down the embankment and deposited Thorin in the midst of the rushes. This part of the river was more akin to the place where he had bathed himself and the moving water did not allow for much purchase. His long overcoat caught on something below the water's surface, while the rapids continued to pull him away. Struggling willfully, his head soon sank beneath the blue.

It happened quickly, and at first Thranduil laughed at the fall, for it was lovely timing. However, it only lasted a second before he realized that his friend was in danger. He surfed down the hillside to the water's edge. Thorin had not been taken far, but he was made to hop across the river rock to reach him. Nimbly his body moved and soon he was grasping Thorin's coat, pulling his head above so as to allow breath. Thorin sputtered, spitting water out and gasping for air. The coat was still stuck, and though Thranduil's strength and agility were preeminent, he could not free the trapped dwarf.

"Take off your coat," he yelled.

"I cannot mo..." A rush of water flowed into his mouth and his head bobbed back choking.

Thranduil gritted his teeth and cried out in frustration, looking around for an answer. But there was none.

"I'm going to drop you back in, hold your breath."

Thorin complied, preparing for the cold drop. Releasing the collar, Thranduil dove off the rock and headed down to the bottom of the river. At once he saw it. Thorin's coat was caught between a boulder and a small stack of rocks that had rolled down from the riverbank. He worked to remove them, knowing his companion was running out of breath. His own chest was beginning to burn, but with one last pull of stone, the rest came free. He pushed under Thorin's thighs and he felt the dwarf rise and begin to swim. His own body began to protest as he tried to ascend. A look of panic crossed his face and his arms scrambled to reach for the surface. He had been under the water too long.

A hand stopped the flailing and grasped firmly. He was pulled up and away the from the depths. The two hauled themselves out of the swirling watercourse, clawing at the grass and earth as their chests heaved for breath. They each turned in time onto their backs after coughing and expelling the liquid from their lungs. They lay there, breathing deep, allowing the moment to pass.

Thranduil was the first to break. He laughed, not because their current state was humorous, but because they had survived. That a ridiculous ledge could have been both of their undoing, but it was not. Thorin cast a look at the giggling elf beside him. He looked utterly mad...mad and glorious. He was lovely in his mirth and Thorin could not help but laugh with him. It was contagious. They lived, though the river would have taken them. They lay at the water's edge, laughing like children as the exhilaration left their bodies. It coursed vigorously in their limbs and settled firmly in their cores. The laughs turned to smiles, and the smiles to exchanged glances. Whereas they kept their faces skyward in the beginning, they now turned to each other, searching for assurance.

"Thank you," Thorin reached out his hand, clasping Thranduil's.

"It was no trouble, and you have already repaid the debt," was his soft reply.

They struggled to their feet, supporting each other in turn, laboring so as not to let on that either was bereft of strength. Thorin straightened his tunic and overcoat. It was an absurd thing to do as he stood soaking wet, his hair in tangles about his shoulders. Thranduil did not fare much better. His normally fair elven coif was strung about him and his clothes clung to his dripping body.

"Are we not a sight?" Thorin joked.

"Yes," Thranduil snorted, "we certainly lack propriety at this moment."

Thorin began to peel off his clothes, layer by layer.

"What are you doing?"

"If you wish to walk the day in wet garments, be my guest."

Thranduil thought on this a moment. It was improper to undress in plain sight and in front of a common dwarf, however, he did not desire the feeling of chaffed skin and sore, pruned feet. Looking around shyly, he too began to remove his clothes. Both sets of garb were set out on the adjacent boulders to dry in the midday sun. It was warm and the sun felt wonderful upon their naked skin. They sat, turned ever so slightly from each other to maintain privacy.

"Do you have a wife, Greenleaf?" Thorin asked.

The elf traced circles in the soft grass beneath him, "Not yet, though I should think my father would have someone in mind presently. I love my father, but he thinks that I am too brash. I think he seeks to prepare me for the eventuality of the throne. If my mother settled his heart, perhaps there is someone who would settle mine. Though, as I have said before, my life is long. I see no reason to settle, to avoid the world. And, as you so aptly put it, as immortals, we leave or things leave us. Why avoid adventure?" He half smiled to himself, "And anyway, who would have me?"

"You are brave enough; I am sure you would find a good match."

"Have you married?" His tone was cautious and solemn, "Children?"

"I have not married. Time has not afforded such things for me," a pang of regret stung his heart, "I do have two nephews, Fili and Kili. They are good boys, if a bit brash. But aren't we all in our youth?" He looked at Thranduil with a knowing smile. A short lived chuckle, then Thorin's face fell. He realized how much he missed his nephews. He worried that he may never see them again. If this search for one of the five wizards was not successful, he may be trapped here, never to fully reclaim Erebor, never to see them again.

"You miss them," Thranduil started, "Are they were you are headed?"

"I hope so."

➰➰➰➰➰

Days passed and the travelers walked miles through the Greenwood. Conversation had improved and they each found that they enjoyed the other's company. They would speak for hours on end about their views, their likes and dislikes, their family; though Thorin was still very careful as to not reveal too much. More than once he found himself having to caution his words and work around details. They presently came to the edge of the Enchanted River. Evening was upon them and soon it would be too dark to travel. They found an open spot in the thick of the trees and made camp.

"Tonight marks the beginning of Austalendë," Thranduil commented.

"You mentioned that before, what is it?" Thorin asked, biting into a ripe strawberry that they had collected on their way.

"It is the celebration of Summer, held on the solstice. The moon will be bold this night. It is customary to cease all speech from midnight to the dawn, upon which we sing it's praises."

"That does not seem to be much of a celebration. Where I am from, there would be toasts and dances. The stars would shake with the ferocity of our festivities."

"Our two peoples are very different," Thranduil commented offhandedly.

"In some things," Thorin reached out and once again clasped Thranduil's hand, as he had done so many days ago on the riverbank. The elf slowly looked at their hands, joined between them. He felt anxiety, and exhilaration. He was unsure of an appropriate response. Allowing his thumb to rove over the back of Thorin's hand, he kept his eyes lowered. Bashfulness was not something he was accustomed to, yet he found himself unable to look upon the dwarf beside him.

This did not go unnoticed. Thorin also adjusted his gaze. He saw the Elvenkings fingers caressing his hand and he held his breath. This form of touching was normally too intimate for friends to share openly. It had been many a year since someone had been so forward. He found that he liked it; he missed the sensation of touch. It was not the clap on the shoulder of a job well done or a head butt from his kin. This was different. Such a small, gentle thing and yet he did not wish it to stop.

Thranduil saw the look on his companion's face and immediately ceased his ministrations, taking the look of perplexity for aversion. He pulled his hand away, like a child whose hand was swatted for misbehaving. But Thorin could not stand for it. He grabbed the hand back and held it firmly in his own, bringing his other hand to rest atop. Thranduil swallowed hard and his cheeks turned a deep shade of rose.

"There is no need to shy away," Thorin began, "I have found that I enjoy your company greatly."

Thranduil's breaths increased inside of his chest. Keeping his eyes fixed on his hand enveloped in Thorin's, his reply was barely a whisper, "It is nearly midnight..." His mouth continued, but the words ceased. He could not speak; his voice was trapped on the mount of a desert within.

"Sometimes to hear, one must be silent," Thorin replied gently.

With that, Austalendë descended upon them. Observing each other in the light of the fire in silence, time seemed to still. It was the first time that Thorin did not think of his plight. His thoughts were lost in the moment. Time was, for the first time since he awoke on the river's edge, not in the forefront of his mind. He focused instead on the light and the way it danced upon ivory skin. He lost himself in hues of earth and fire. It seemed to warm the cool countenance that Thranduil's elven facade portrayed in stillness, softening the seemingly hard exterior. He longed to feel it beneath his fingers, to caress gently upon cheek and jaw, if nothing more. It was odd that this image before him had such an effect. Indeed, it had been an age since he felt this way, and never for another male, let alone an elf. Still, he felt compelled to look and to touch. This of course, would be inappropriate for a dwarf of his stature, not an action befitting a king.

But he was not a king here. His existence was not yet even a glimmer in the distance. He was not Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain. He was just Thorin, or better yet, Thorin Unknown. He smiled, cherishing the byname he had been given, for he knew not how much longer he would hear it spoken. Would Thranduil remember him in the Third Age of this world? Would their time together count for anything? In this time, nothing was certain. And it was this uncertainty, perhaps, that lead the future dwarven king to reach out once more toward his companion.

Thranduil startled momentarily, retreating slightly from Thorin's hand. But Thorin moved steadily on and his fingers met their target, the backs of his fingers caressing down Thranduil's smooth cheek. The elf sighed and leaned into the touch. It was the sigh of a man who has longed for comfort and not received it. Thorin tipped his head and closed his eyes, listening to the sound. It called to him. And as the breeze washed the scent of the Enchanted River over them, Thorin breathed deep, and cradled Thranduil's face in his hand. The kiss was cautious; it did not smack of wanting nor urgency. It came as a wave upon a calm oceanfront. Their lips touched ever so briefly, pulling away in reservation.

Ragged and harsh Thranduil's breath came and he licked the taste off his mouth that Thorin had afforded him. If there had been words to speak, he would not have allowed them to leave his body. He wanted to keep everything about this moment inside, a moment in time stolen away to the furthest reaches of his heart. He dare not speak, lest this minute fade into the darkness, never to return. They hovered, close enough to explore each other with all of their senses, but remained reticent. It was not suitable, it was not right. Thorin moved closer only to back away. Thranduil moved in unison and they would miss each other by a hair's breadth. Upon the last pass, Thranduil whimpered ever so slightly, unable to contain his desire any further. Thorin's resolve broke in that moment and he closed his mouth around Thranduil's, tasting him fully. His tongue explored, his lips crushing. Something inside of him dissipated and he felt light. He lifted himself from the rock where he sat and straddled the Elvenking, bringing his hands to clutch the joining of Thranduil's neck and shoulders. He ran them down over his collarbone and beneath his tunic, pulling it aside as he kissed tenderly.

Thorin pulled back slightly. Thranduil opened his eyes. They were locked in an embrace, an embrace of the mind, an embrace of the body. The wind blew chill and a fine mist rolled over the camp. The two did not notice. Their world was each other in that moment. The very air around them grew thick as ivy and hummed with anticipation. Thranduil raised a trembling hand to Thorin's lips and touched ever so slightly with the tips of his fingers. He felt the opulent curves and imagined his hands elsewhere. Closing his eyes, Thranduil breathed deep and let his head roll back allowing himself to feel the pleasure of the imagery.

Thorin felt as if he could not breathe, and indeed he discovered that he had been holding his breath for he knew not how long. He exhaled forcefully, unable to abstain any longer. He drove forward and kissed the exposed neck before him. He licked and sucked at the velvety skin, bringing his arms underneath Thranduil's to pull his body unto him. The elf in turn encircled his arms around Thorin's neck and moaned. Thorin paused. It was one of the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard, low and wanting, like resounding thunder waiting for the rain. His efforts doubled and he rocked against his companion, his friend. He felt down the svelte body, wishing the cloth did not hide it away. He moaned against Thranduil's neck.

The vibration was felt between them, starting at Thorin's mouth and traveling down until their cores hummed together. Thranduil had never felt this with another before. He liked it, he wanted it; he wanted Thorin. He slid forward and attempted to lower them to the forest floor, but the weight was too great and they hit hard, rolling toward the fire. Thranduil pulled on Thorin's tunic behind the shoulder, insuring that he would end up on top. The result was agreeable. Thranduil now straddled the dwarf, his body lying atop. Thorin's arms had flown above his head and Thranduil made short work of securing them with his own.

Thorin panted and began to resist. If the dwarf had not been accustomed to another's hand in his own, he was certainly not accustomed to being restrained in this manner. At least, he was not accustomed to it off of the battlefield and he did not associate it with anything other than defense. It unnerved him slightly and his eyes showed his discomfort. His first instinct was to repel the elf, but he stayed his hand, his logic intervening.

Seeing that his enjoyment had diminished, Thranduil released Thorin's hands and slowly brought his own down to caress the sides of Thorin's face. He understood the tense reaction, though he was not completely ready for it. His fingers tangled in the ebony hair strewn about the ground beneath. It calmed the dwarf below him and he could see him visibly relax. His muscles no longer rigid, his body once again became pliable. Thorin tenderly rubbed Thranduil's forearms, sharing in the moment of affection. He liked the closeness; he liked feeling as if there was no expectation, no future, no past. It was all here in the sphere of time that held them; one moment in a number beyond count. They lay there for a long while as the cool breeze blew the spray of the Enchanted River over their prone bodies. Thranduil held Thorin's head and brought it to meet his own, their foreheads joining together. Their eyes closed; the two fell completely and utterly silent, enjoying each other as they were, not as they would be.

➰➰➰➰➰

The dawn broke in song and glory. The dulcet tones of the impending blaze filled the sky, yellow and orange met with tenor and soprano. The voices were compelled upward in a fountain of music and mist. It made the air thick and soft. The whole of the Woodland Realm seemed to sound with chorus. Thorin awoke, smiling despite himself. He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, seeing the brilliant swaths of color filling the sky. Thranduil was not beside him as they had been when sleep no longer evaded them. It was strange how quickly the dreams had settled. He remembered lying with him, caressing his arms and sharing in his breath. Thranduil had settled on him, his body half wrapped around. And then there was nothing.

He looked over across the now cold fire pit and moved to rest on his elbow, taking in the sight.  
Thranduil sat on a rock, his face lifted toward the sky. His voice sounded like the wind through a lush valley. It was deep and rich. It joined the other voices that filled the air in perfect harmony. Thorin did not know Thranduil could sing, though he knew most elves had some innate talent. They were such that their very spirits were tied to the origins of Middle Earth and the song remained in them. But Thranduil sang well, very well. He listened intently, entranced in the sweet elven melody. Dwarf songs were strong and resonant in their delivery. They echoed in the caverns old and met the sky with an unyielding wield. This song, as many songs of the elves, could have been mistaken for nature itself. If one should draw breath, as one tends to do, it would not be so natural as this orchestra before him. It was the sound of nothing, and everything.

Thranduil stopped, noticing his companion's intent gaze. He smiled, his eyes soft.

Wordlessly, Thorin stood and walked over. Thranduil looked up at him, his face all but blank, save for a tear upon his marble cheek. Realizing this emotional transgression, the elf raised his hand & looked down, hiding his face. This celebration had this affect on him every year and he felt silly for it. Though he had never experienced the shame of it in front of another, especially not one who was not of his kind. Thorin did not make any indication of disapproval, and Thranduil was thankful for it. The dwarf merely sat beside him, and moved so that their bodies were snuggled and close. They sat there for what seemed like hours, though time, as we have found, can be quite the deceiver. When they did decide to continue on their journey, the animals had resumed their normal chatter and the sky was a fair shade of blue.

"This is the Enchanted River," Thorin stated, "Is there no ferry close to cross it?"

"We must travel to the south. It is not far," Thranduil returned.

"With the vile thing being so polluted, one would think there would have been more bridges built."

"Polluted? This river has run through the kingdom since the beginning. It may have a slight enchantment upon it as intimated by its name, but it is nothing of consequence. And, it acts as a natural barrier."

"Nothing of consequence? The last time I encountered it, one of my company fell into it and was cursed by its waters. It robs of memory and sense..." Thorin suddenly remembered where he was, or rather when. This was not the Third Age and perhaps the river had not been hexed as it was in his time. The water did run much clearer and steadier. He was allowing himself to be swept up in this time, or dream, or whatever this was. He had to remember his state and keep his thoughts censored.

"You have traveled in the Greenwood before?" Thranduil asked, "Why did you not say? You were lost when I found you, and I am sure we have never met."

"We...kept to the outskirts as much as possible," he replied lamely.

Thranduil did not pursue the subject, but held an incredulous look. When they arrived at the small boat, Thorin gingerly stepped in. Perhaps the river was not as cursed as it was in his time, but he did not want to leave anything to chance.

Thranduil laughed at him.

"It will not steal your memories, my friend, nor your sense. It but leaves its travelers in a rested sleep for a time. Did you not feel rested when you awoke this morning, though the hours of sleep had been short?"

"I thought," Thorin began, "I...thought...it might have been..." he sighed, "I thought it might have been the company I am keeping."

Thorin's face burned red.

Thranduil met his eyes briefly and looked away, a small smile intimated.

The boat pushed away from the shore and settled into the water. The crossing was met with an awkward silence and each of them looked everywhere but at each other. When the opposite shore was reached, Thranduil nimbly jumped from his place at the stern, to the boat rail, and onto the grass. He tied up the boat quickly and chanced a glance at Thorin over his shoulder.

"Perhaps the river isn't the only one with charms," he said, spinning around, a smile playing at his eyes. He leaned his shoulder against the tree and peered at Thorin expectantly.

Standing in the boat, Thorin cocked his head to one side. What had that meant? Was it Thranduil who had brought him here? Some elven charm? And if he had, to what end? He felt conflicted by the comment and he once again questioned the situation he found himself in. The elf had been strange, toying with him since he arrived. He remembered their meeting so many days earlier. Was last night part of his scheme? A feeling of betrayal creeped into his heart. Thorin disembarked and walked resolutely to the tree where Thranduil stood.

"Is it your elven charms doing all this?" His arm came to rest on the bark next to him as he continued, "Tell me plainly, for there is no point in moving on if the answer I seek is within you."

Thranduil cupped Thorin's face in his hand, "I had hoped that this was desired. I think the answer you seek may lie within you."

"You speak in riddles and play your games," a quiet retort through clenched teeth, "How would you know what I desire?" His voice was low, bordering on a growl as he attempted to keep his frustration in check. He had come to like Thranduil, but if this was all a trick, some deceitful game, then his former years of hate for elves' treachery and dishonor would be all but set in stone.

Hearing the scorn in Thorin's voice, Thranduil's face fell and his hand moved back to his side as he turned and walked from the tree, "I do not consort lightly with others, Thorin," his hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his voice raw and thin, "but I saw a mystery in you and I pursued it. I see the strife within you. If you are lost, or found, or what ever your situation, it is your own and no fault of mine. I offer my company and ask nothing in return. Keep your desires and your mystery. It is none of mine."

Thorin realized then that Thranduil was truly ignorant of his predicament. The way in which his graceful shoulders hung, and his head lifted to stare into the distance lead him to know that this was no scheme. They were speaking of two separate things and now he had hurt his friend. Thranduil sought only his companionship; he sought his own answer through searching eyes and soft hands. He sought confirmation that the moments they had shared were not fleeting. And Thorin had accused him, mocked him; thought ill of him for a crime that most likely was not within his power to execute. His heart sank as he stood in the shadow of the giant tree. He questioned everything now. His emotions were raw from the journey and at odds with each other over Thranduil. Hate should be the order of the day in the company of such a being, but after the hours of twilight and days of travel, it had changed. He did not know if he should feel this way toward an elf, and a male at that; he did not know if he should feel this way at all. Erebor was what mattered; it was what always mattered, and he must return to it, no matter how lonely it might be.

What came forth then was the only thing that would dare occupy his tortured mind, "I apologize, Thranduil, forgive me."

No more words would come. He felt wrong and still immeasurably confused. He felt as if he were falling deeper and deeper into this time, this dream of circumstance. He had hoped that by moving out of the Greenwood he would be moving toward a solution. Soon, he would be back in his own time, where things seemed simpler. He would go back and rebuild Erebor to its former glory, be the center of trade routes and the envy of all with the riches housed within. The Arkenstone would be restored it its proper resting place and Thorin would occupy the throne beneath it, as was his right. Why could this not come to fruition? What cruel intentions did fate have for him? To have him traveling with his enemy, only to find that he was amiable and extraordinary before the bitterness and ruthlessness of an Age set in. How could he come to care for such a being? Why should he feel such a pull to stay, or at least to remember? For Thranduil, would he fade into a distant memory? For the life of an elf was long and details were often lost upon them. Would this encounter be but a detail?

Thranduil smiled once again. He did this so often, and Thorin was taken aback each time, for he had never know the Elvenking to be so given to gaiety. He wondered what had happened to him in the space between time that would leave him so cold and unfeeling. For now, the levity was welcome, and Thorin felt all the better for it. Thranduil turned toward him, the sun streaming through his golden hair, casting lean shadows upon the ground.

"Greenleaf, I believe it was, and I accept your apology....for the time being."

"The time being?" Thorin queried.

"Yes," Thranduil replied pragmatically, "You have said a few things to me over the course of our acquaintance that have puzzled me greatly. Your countenance is volatile and you react without thought. Do not think these slips have gone unnoticed. I am not halfwitted. I would hope at some point that I will receive some semblance of an explanation," he paused and sighed, his tone softening slightly, "I only wish to know your story. I know that you owe me nothing, however, you intrigue me deeply. You must know, surely you must know."

Thorin's lips parted, but no words came at first. How could he tell Thranduil that though he had grown quite fond of him as well, we could not stay. This time was not his, no matter how he might wish it. And he could not allow himself to be involved so. An explanation was what he longed to give the most, yet it was the one thing he could not give.

"I find...I cannot...you must not know me, Thranduil Greenleaf," his tone was distressed. He wanted so much to confide in someone. He wanted to confide in his companion, more than anything at this moment. But what of time? He could not risk it. He bowed his head with the weight of a confession unspoken.

Thranduil stood before Thorin now, and sweetly offered solace.

"I wish to know you, Thorin Unknown," he held Thorin's head in both hands and leaned in so that their faces were mere centimeters apart, "but I would not have you vexed. I would not have you walk in quandary and I not able to follow, but I fear that is where you are whilst here I stand. Do not worry yourself about informing me of your plans. Despite the secrets you keep, I will stay with you."

"I fear you cannot...," Thorin's voice broke and his eyes sagged with sadness.

"Let us start it, right here. I will put my foot forth, and you yours, and together, we will finish our journey."

If only he knew how right he was, Thorin thought. He grabbed Thranduil behind the neck and looked him in the eye. He was overcome with a sense of endearment. It pulsed in his veins and burgeoned in his heart so completely.

"May I?" He asked breathlessly.

"Yes."

Permission given, it did not matter the extent of the question. Thorin closed the gap between them in a passionate kiss. He poured his everything into it, all of his anger, confusion, longing, and loneliness. It washed over him and exited through one long, devoted kiss.

After that, the hours were amiable. Yet another layer had been lifted and there was a general sense of understanding and ease as they continued on.

"You could stay, you know," Thranduil's eyes remained forwarded they walked.

"I must continue. There are those I must find for counsel," he replied solemnly, "I would stay, however..."

"If you wish it, I would send my most trusted messenger to find whom it is you seek. I would bring him here at once. You could wait here...with me."

Thorin cleared his throat and tugged at his tunic, "Time is not my ally at this moment, my friend," he glanced at Thranduil, catching the blue of his eyes then fixing his stare back at the field ahead.

"Yes, of course," Thranduil smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

It was a few more days to the edge of the Greenwood and the path had been enjoyable. Thorin almost forgot his quest to find one of the Five. He almost wished, in his heart of hearts, that he could stay in this time, with the Thranduil of the Second Age. The Thranduil that laughed and held a mischievous smile as he glanced aside, the Elvenking who was not yet a king and held no real hatred toward his kind. This of course, was impossible, he reminded himself. He must return to his own time. He must take his place as King Under the Lonely Mountain. He must return to his company, to his family and friends who had followed him on a perilous journey. One that was fraught with danger, with no guarantee of success or wealth. Even if this were not the case, he could not stay. This was not his time. The dwarves of this age were not his people, but his ancestors. And finally, what would he do here? Try to stay out of the way of any major occurrence so as not to affect the future? How would he expect to do that with an immortal at his side? If that is, Thranduil would remain at his side. He was unsure of how the elf would react if the truth were to be revealed.

They traveled for three days before they reached the edge of the forest. It was beginning to get dark as they reached the fields beyond its borders. The twilight set in and the shadows disappeared at the foot of he wood. The two paused and took in the rosey hue spread over the long grass. A soft breeze blew through and it looked like a giant blanket, found by children who played and crawled underneath.

"Sometimes it is lonely, though one is surrounded by others," Thranduil stood tall and graceful, surveying the peaceful scene before them.

His voice was a knife through the silence.

"From what I know of you, you enjoy solitude," Thorin returned.

Thranduil looked at him with pained eyes, "I like to move, I like to roam," he looked back out across the rolling fields, "It's the danger in it. What do I have to lose in an adventure that would not be worth it?"

"Yourself," Thorin replied solemnly.

Thranduil looked at him in curiosity. Thorin's face was serious, staring at nothing in particular in the distance.

"Every journey changes a being, it is unavoidable," he turned and walked back into the brush, leaving the sun to set on it's own.

"That is my fear..." Thorin whispered.

They made their way back into the wood, backtracking to a small cave hidden in the side of a hill. The opening was large enough to walk into, but obscured by the large roots of the tree that crowned its entrance. It looked as if the tree kept it as a cage, should anyone be foolish enough to enter. As if the roots would close and the tree would laugh in delight as the creature jailed beneath pulled and fought to be free.

"We are to make camp here?" Thorin asked, snickering at the thought of the tree's treachery.

"Don't you dwarves like caves?" Thranduil quipped, "I thought you might feel at home."

Thranduil flashed his impish smile, narrowing his eyes in challenge, and Thorin returned by throwing his bedroll at him.

The night descended upon the little alcove and soon fireflies could be seen hovering and blinking in their gleeful dance. Thorin had set a small fire to light the cave, it's embers providing but not overbearing in the enclosure. There they sat and talked of trivial things, relaxing their minds. Soon, though the frivolity came to a halt and the two sat in a heavy silence. Neither wanted to address the topic of tomorrow. For Thorin would continue on beyond the borders of the Greenwood and Thranduil would return home. The reality of their situation came crashing down like a tidal wave and each of them found that they did not wish to admit that they were drowning.

"The weather should be fine for your journey tomorrow. The clouds look as if they should hold, so it's...not as warm...for you," Thranduil offered uneasily.

"Yes, yes it should," Thorin responded.

Their eyes found each other's. There was a long pause.

"Stay..."

The word was so simply put and in such earnest that Thorin could scarcely reply, "I cannot, however much I wish it."

"Whom do you seek, Thorin? Please, I must know what is of such great importance that it takes away the only person that I have felt affection for these long years. If you must go, I will not stop you, but tell me who you are so that I may remember you," he implored, "Help me to know that you are not but a dream set before my waking eyes."

Thorin felt his heart breaking in that instant. It was the exact way he had felt from the moment he had awoken in the Greenwood. Thranduil's heart mirrored his own. He knew then that they were both in an unknown place. Thorin's journey had started as a search for home, though somewhere along the way, it had changed to a matter of heart. He yearned for things to be different, but he knew he could not change them. Emotions afflicted with futility, he reached out for Thranduil, hoping to find some comfort in his touch. The elf did not disappoint, he leaned in and placed his cheek in Thorin's outstretched hand. His golden hair fell about it and brushed his wrist as it cascaded. Each strand was a silken rope, a treasure made of the stars' brightest light. He cherished how the fire played upon it, so pale it was. It almost seemed to absorb the light, taking it for its own and returning a flaxen brilliance. He wanted to remember it; he wanted to remember this sight for the rest of his days.

"I would adorn you with all the light of the stars, though such gems would hold no beauty in comparison," Thorin's face now betrayed him and he could no longer hide his melancholy.

Thranduil closed his eyes and turned his head; his lips bestowed a small kiss on Thorin's palm. Thorin's eyes closed and he turned his own head, feeling the kiss, and the longing. He wanted more, but did not think it wise or proper. He knew he would be leaving, and yet he wanted to enjoy this moment as if he were not. He could not bring himself to gaze upon his companion, for his heart had already found itself in yearning.

Thranduil continued to kiss, moving up to Thorin's wrist, he cradled it with his mouth. Arms rose and hands gripped Thorin's forearm and shoulder, pulling him forward as the siege persisted. In one swift movement, Thranduil's want could no longer be controlled in a moderating fashion and he conquered Thorin's mouth with his own. He bit softly along his bottom lip and licked the tops of his teeth. He breathed in the scent of his beard and tasted the sweet berries they had enjoyed earlier. The kiss became deeper and more forceful. Thorin gripped Thranduil's hair, growling into his mouth as they kissed. He controlled him, moving his head to meet his pursuit. But Thranduil, not to be outdone, flung his arm around the dwarf's shoulder and pulled him down. Rolling so that he lie atop, he once again pinned Thorin's arms over his head. And there he paused.

"Do you want this, Thorin Unknown?" he breathed raggedly.

"I do not wish to be unknown...," came the reply.

Thranduil kissed him fervently, not allowing him to continue. The rest of the answer did not matter. He cared not for the circumstances, nor the future. It did not matter that this creature before him, born of earth and stone, did not give him his deepest secrets, for this night would know them. Unchained and of no necessity would they come. Heedless of the wind they would fly toward the heavens. Thranduil did not care. His time with his companion had brought about a renewal of faith, a cease fire between boredom and duty. He felt this dwarf with every fiber in his being and he did not know why.

"I want this," he said.

"I know," Thorin replied feverishly.

"Take me," he implored.

"Yes."

Thorin craned his neck and kissed Thranduil. They rolled once again, moving toward the small cavern wall. Dim shadows were cast, making the hollow come alive. Thorin came to rest atop the elf, his hips forced between long legs. There, clothes were shed in a frenetic manner, guises no longer inhibiting. They lie before each other now, skin close and warm, natural beauty displayed. Thorin could not believe he had not before seen Thranduil as arresting as he did in this moment. His body was much more sculpted than he had thought. It was strong yet graceful. Supple hips moved easily toward him as his hands gripped either side. Thranduil's hands were strewn above his head, resting on the golden mane splayed below it. He moaned as Thorin stroked down his chest and stomach, coming to rest upon where he now ached most. Thranduil arched his back, his legs spreading with need. Thorin began to rub him, taking his own fingers in his mouth as he did so. Thranduil was watching. Lidded eyes followed Thorin's fingers moving in and out of his mouth, slicked and firm.

Those fingers were soon brought down to his entrance. They rubbed slowly, painfully so. For their desires were such that time was their enemy and patience a requirement. More slick was added and carefully, a finger slipped inside. Thranduil sucked in his breath and shut his eyes. Thorin moved tenderly. He did not wish to hurt his companion, his lover. The cycle of elves was unknown to him, and Thranduil was still young. As a dwarf of 200, he may have experiences that Thranduil lacked. He rubbed the elf more and was greeted with pearls of white upon the crown of his length. Soon his body accepted the intrusion and Thorin was able to slide in a second finger, moving in and out. Thranduil moaned gratefully, his body responding. His hips were thrusting with each movement and beads of sweat were upon his brow. He looked to Thorin, his want plain. Thorin obliged and removed his fingers, crawling up to kiss his lover. His hands roamed, enjoying the soft skin. His desire grew and soon he was rutting against Thranduil. He moaned and grabbed the elf's golden hair pulling his head back. Vulnerability, pure and offered, without hesitation, without pride, Thranduil lay before him. The desire ached and the longing had been as sharp as a dagger. This moment, taken in pause and trust, was carved out of the very tablets of time. Nuzzling down, Thorin lowered his face to run his lips along Thranduil's jaw. Grabbing his thigh, he positioned himself at Thranduil's entrance and haltingly pushed inside.

The sensation was almost too much and he had to stop himself from being pushed over the edge right then. He filled his lover completely and reveled in the fit. Thranduil held Thorin's arms, clenching the taught muscles. He released and gripped again as Thorin began to move inside of him. It felt exquisite, it felt complete. He launched himself into him and the lithe body responded in kind. He plunged deeper, delving into his lover. The rhythm set and pleasures in time, they felt the rush of passion. The plays became more fervent, so ardent was their desire.

Thorin came then, screaming out into the dark of night. It was a release of everything, his confusion, his desire, his hate, his aggression, and finally his confession of love. It had been pent up for so long, put aside for more important matters. He did not hold back now. He poured himself into Thranduil and Thranduil reciprocated. The sight was incredible and the cries of wanton pleasure echoed in the small enclosure. The elf's body arched more beautifully than any architecture born of Eru and Thorin could not help but grasp his sides and kiss his chest. Thranduil brought his head up, willing their eyes to meet. Rain and sky could not have made a more perfect match.

The elf held his lover, wrapping his strong arms around him and pulling him down to lie upon his chest. They breathed heavy and felt the sweat between their prone bodies. Nestling the soft skin beneath him, contentment washed over Thorin and the blissful smell of Mountain Misery surrounded his senses. The outside air flowed in through the cave's mouth and cooled the pair. It swept in and reminded them that daybreak, though unwanted this night, would approach before long.

Thranduil sighed.

"It is not yet dawn, melethnin," Thorin replied sleepily.

"You did not tell me you speak Sindarin."

"I have learned enough."

"You are my greatest mystery, amralime," Thranduil said with a chuckle.

They settled into each other then, entangled in one another as if a storm might come and pull them apart. The night was clear, and full of longing. Alone in time they were, though with each other, they did not feel as if their journeys were so disconnected. Thranduil and Thorin slept beside each other, but felt as one. A bond had formed and they knew not why, only that tonight was an admission of it. Thranduil had never experienced it and Thorin had never dreamed it possible. Though in the dark, dreams hold fast. Only the first light would decide the end of their arduous path.

➰➰➰➰➰

 

Thorin shifted first under the light of the morning. The cave faced east and so let in its brilliance through the trees. A spirited wind had picked up during the night and now played in the leaves and bent the branches in jest. The morning was chilled and the dew trembled in the grass. Woodland creatures crossed paths, sharing a brisk hello and continuing on. The whole of the Woodland Realm chattered and it's ingenuous cheer flooded the hollow.

Realizing the day was upon them, Thorin sat up, rubbing his eyes. Sleep wished to return to him; not so much from fatigue, but from the disbelief that today he would be leaving. He glanced at Thranduil who stirred slightly and opened his eyes. The look of affection on his face was almost too much for Thorin to bear and he looked away. It felt wrong to leave, but he knew that he must. However, he felt that at the very least, an explanation was owed.

"Good morning," Thranduil said, stretching out his long limbs.

"Good morning," Thorin replied quietly, "Though good may not be the word to describe it."

Thranduil sat up, his knees bent and his elbows coming to rest upon them, "I think it is apt. The sun has risen, the birds sing in their nests. Why even..."

"I have something to tell you," Thorin cut off.

Thranduil fell silent, his face growing serious. Thorin pulled his clothes to him and began to dress. He stood and pensively paced the cave as he laced his pants.

"I have not revealed much about myself. I am cautious by nature in such matters, however it was not only for this reason that I remained unforthcoming," he paused in a moment of doubt, but continued, "I am not who you think I am."

"And who is it I think you are? As you have said, you have told me very little."

"I am...not from this land," he started, "That is, I am from this land...I am not from here."

"I am confused, Thorin. You are not of The Greenwood, that is plain. Do you come from Khazad-dûm? It is of no importance to me where you come from."

"No, I do not come from Khazad-dûm. Though my family once did, long ago...not really so long...now," he was stumbling over his words. This was much harder than he had thought, "This is not my time," he rushed out.

His outburst was met with more confusion, but Thranduil remained still, listening intently.

"I do not know how it is I came to the Woodland Realm. The last time I was here, I was passing through on a journey to Erebor with a company of dwarves."

"Erebor? I have not heard of that place. Surely, we would have met then. We do not often miss a group of travelers in our lands."

"We traveled here in another Age of this world," he turned and stared out into the hollow, "The year of my birth is 2746 of the Third Age. I am not meant to be here," he finished quietly.

Thranduil's eyes went wide for a moment's time and he stood, "How can that be?"

"I wish I knew," Thorin replied, "All I know is that I awoke here having no knowledge of where I was or how to return home. At first, I thought you might have had something to do with it, but I realized that I was wrong. And I apologize for it. That is the reason I must go; that is the reason I seek a wizard's counsel. I can find no other reason than that of magic. It is there that I must find the means to return to my own time."

Thranduil understood, and yet he did not.

"You are here from the Third Age. With such misconceptions, what is the nature of our acquaintance in your time?"

"I cannot answer that," Thorin said staunchly.

Thranduil grasped Thorin's arm, "You tell me you are from the future of this world, expecting me to believe you and yet you would not trust me with something so simple?"

Thorin pulled his arm away, "It is not so simple."

The dwarf walked to the edge of the small cave and rested his arm on the entrance wall.

"Are you perhaps not afflicted by a dream of fancy?" Thranduil offered. He wanted to believe his companion, but the idea of it seemed inconceivable.

Thorin suddenly remembered the gold coin he found in the cave. It was still in his coat pocket. He had not taken it out since he landed in this place.

"I will prove it to you," he walked to his coat, picking it up to look for the coin, "I carried it in my hand when I arrived here. You will see the date of its forging."

He felt the metal and brought it from his inner pocket. Looking at the gold, it began to glow as it had in the cavern and it reminded him of the hoard, and of his mountain. The wind picked up and once again Thorin felt a deep sleep creeping. The cave seemed to echo around him, the sound of their voices swirling and crashing, His eyes went wide and filled with the gold's song. He could not take his eyes off of it. He felt himself slipping away into a dark haze. Panic rising, he swallowed hard and gasped.

"No."

"Thorin?" Thranduil reached for him, but it was a gesture come too late.

Thorin tore his eyes away from the coin and looked to Thranduil once more, a hopeless gaze taking over his face, "Thranduil..."

His hand reached out as the world came to close around him. He fell into darkness, the beautiful elven face screaming his name in the distance. He slept then, the coin released from his hand, falling into unknown places. Helplessly, he fell and fell into the depths of a time not so long ago.

➰➰➰➰➰

The surface he came to wake upon was hard. It dug into his cheek and hands, it's surface unforgiving. He heard no sound, no birds making merry themselves in the green of the trees, no rustling of leaves in the impish wind, and no hum of any voice as it prepares to share its melodious chorus. He was no longer in the light of day, he could feel the cold of darkness without the benefit of sight. Though, at this moment, he did not know if sight was a gift he desired. Warm tears slowly crept from the corners of his eyes as he realized what had transpired, and he kept them shut as long as he could. The sorrowful drops paraded down the shining surface below his face as his hand crashed down upon it, scattering it into a hundred directions. His eyes opened to see the cascade of coins. He did not move. He barely drew breath. He was home.

Thorin ran out of the small cave and was met with the sight of the looming treasure of Erebor.

"No," he looked around the huge cavern, "NO!" He screamed into the stale air and rocky ceiling above, "Not yet...I needed more time...the coin, I must find the coin."

Thorin bounded back into the little cave from whence he came, but the search was to no avail. The coin had been lost. Thorin came close to tearing the whole of Erebor apart, but he stopped and slumped in the golden mounds. His head fell into his hands. This was what he had wanted after all. He had searched the whole time he was in the Second Age for a way back, knowing he could not stay. Now that he was here, that it was real, he felt the loss weighing on him like a thousand stones upon his chest. This was where he belonged. This was where he was meant to stay. But his heart was left somewhere in time.

Above, two voices just out of earshot considered the figure of their leader.

"What should we do about it?" The hobbit asked in concern.

"There's not much to be done, laddy. The gold has begun to take its part as it has before," the aged dwarf sighed, "Thorin Oakenshield's mind has been changed, and that will turn his heart to stone."

"But there must be something..." the hobbit replied, "something we can do. We can't just..."

Balin gently put his hand on Bilbo's arm, "What he values most is lost in a sea of memory and coin. Unless the two can be reconciled, I fear that...find the Arkenstone though we may, it will not bring him back."

The cavern was silent then. The two onlookers slowly turned and began their wretched walk down the stairs to the treasure. They did not hear the stemming of tears, nor the gruff clearing of a strong voice returned by necessity. Had they seen or heard, they may not have thought so severely of their leader. The rest of the company followed and soon the King Under the Mountain rose up to bark his orders. He was here, and there was nothing to be done about it. The Arkenstone would be found. The gold was his. This time, his time, was about his destiny. This was where he belonged. It had been an age since the happenings that to him were mere hours before. He decided that the long years would not have held the love he had found with Thranduil, and he could not fathom of it being more than a candle' flame now between them. At least, that's what he would make himself believe. Events had occurred. Lines had been crossed. If his love were true, would not history have changed? Would Thranduil have not sought him out? Once, he thought he would give the Elvenking the gems of starlight that were so precious to him. He would give the whole of Erebor to have him at his side, to but feel Thranduil's hand in his own.

He stopped his commands and stood motionless in the middle of the gold, coins bouncing and jingling around him as the company searched. He looked to his hand, the hand that had held the glowing coin. It was no longer there, yet he could feel it's weight on his palm. A memory tickled at the back of his mind, as a dream that is all but faded after waking. Long fingers placing something in his hand, a warm feeling, a yearning, and then nothing. He shook his head. The day had been strange. Perhaps this was but another part of the dragon's spell over the gold. Perhaps what he thought had happened was all in his mind. No, he thought, it was real. He had to believe it to be true. He wanted to go and find Thranduil, remind him of their time together. Though an age apart, he wanted to make his lover remember, to kiss and hold him as they had under the hollow's moon. But that was...

"Long ago..." he whispered.

With that, he packed up the memory in a little, wooden box, carved with the leaves of the Woodland Realm, and tucked it away deep within a crevice in his stony heart. It would remain there until a defiler's sword broke it free upon ice and snow. The warm tears of regret melting in with the life's blood draining from his mighty chest. The world would know his legacy, but not his love; his sickness, but not his ache. And a lone figure would stand by his tomb, clothed in green, hair devoid of braid. A lone figure, reclaiming a love lost, biding time return.

 

➰➰➰➰➰

Epilogue

This was the day that the elven emissaries were to arrive. Thorin walked through the halls pondering how the meeting would go. The relations with the elves had been dubious over the ages, though they now sought to ally themselves. It would certainly behoove them in trade. Thorin finger-combed his hair as he walked, half out of nervous habit, half in preparation. He was on his way to the throne room and he did not wish to be reprimanded for not looking appropriate to receive a delegation. His father had warned him to be presentable, and he feared his grandfathers' wrath. It is not that he was ever truly unkempt, however there were a few mistakes made in haste. And as he was ever reminded, he was in line for the throne.

One last straightening of his doublet and he pushed through the heavy doors into the massive throne room. His grandfather sat, Arkenstone glowing above his head, speaking firmly to his advisors. Thorin walked unfaltering across the passage to the throne's landing.

"Grandfather," Thorin greeted, bowing his head, his stance formal.

Thror nodded his head in the direction of his grandson and continued his conversation with his advisors. They were obviously speaking quite fervidly over the arrival of the delegation from The Greenwood. Thorin could hear them discuss the Elvenking. Apparently, he was among the delegates. Thorin had never seen the King of Mirkwood, but stories of his isolation and arrogance had found their way to the mountain. He wondered what kind of an elf he was, hiding away in his caves. His grandfather did not trust the elves, often commenting that they were treacherous and cold beings. Thorin walked past. Thror was hushed as he made his plans clear. The advisors were nodding their heads with irresolute glances, worry lining their eyes.

The Great Doors were opened once more and it was announced that the delegates had arrived. Thror's advisors vacated the throne's plateau and dispersed to the sides, waiting apprehensively. Behind a curtain of light, courtesy of one of the many shafts dug deep into the mountain, the elves began to appear. They were lead by a tall, thin, golden-haired elf with a royal bearing. He wore a crown of branches and leaves that reminded Thorin of the beginning of summer. Light green they were and full of life from the spring's showers. His head was tilted back just so and the light caught his hair seeming to make the white-gold strands glow from within. The Elvenking moved with purpose, followed by his loyal emissaries. His robes of silver flowed out behind him, though his gait was not rushed. Thorin found him striking, for an elf.

"Greetings Thror, Son of Dáin, King Under the Mountain," he tipped his crowned head, and upon raising it he stopped. As if frozen, a look of surprise paled his face. The Elvenking's eyes did not now look to his host, but to the young dwarf standing behind him. He stared as if he had seen a ghost, his lips parted slightly. Thorin shifted in place. Elves were strange creatures and he was not sure of the purpose this one's intent glare. He averted his eyes and quietly cleared his throat, tugging at his tunic. The Elvenking's demeanor returned in all it's state except for a small smile curling at the side of his mouth.

"Greetings Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm," Thror returned, ignoring the odd moment's exchange.

Soon the official greetings were over and next the negotiations would begin. This was not to be a long deliberation. Thror obviously had a plan in mind. There was even a small, wooden box filled with jewels to present as part of the bargaining. Thorin had seen them before. They looked as if they were made of pure starlight. He liked them quite a bit. He assumed the Elvenking felt the same as he looked at them with what he could only regard as avarice and desire. But Thror saw the same look, and no sooner had they struck an accord as he took the jewels for himself. He would not negotiate away the treasures of Erebor to elves who were given to greed and arrogance, who came to his mountain with gold in their eyes; and he vociferously stated as much. The agreement was broken.

The elves left the halls quickly and with great indignance to prepare their horses. It seemed their two peoples would remain at odds. Insults were not taken lightly by the immortals and their departure would be swift. The Elvenking was not to be seen nor heard, in such anger he had left. Thorin took his leave as well, pondering what had just transpired. He felt his grandfather had acted rashly and dishonorably. He would never say such, as it was not his place. However, the way Thror had spoken to Thranduil was not his own. It was strange and ridden with intemperance. The treasure found within the mountain was rightfully the property of the dwarves, but why not use some of it's riches to build Erebor's greatness? The elves had offered tribute and trade. They may have felt the pangs of greed at the sight of the gems and the prospect of the riches in the mountain, but Thror had been firm and direct. He saw much in Thranduil's eyes, but war was not among them. Why had the Elvenking not responded when accused of greed? The look on his face made it seem as if he had something to say, but the words did not come forth. Perhaps this was the way of elves, he thought.

He wandered aimlessly, thinking about what had happened, until he was stopped abruptly by a tall, lissome form blocking his path. It was Thranduil, the Elvenking. He had seemed to appear from thin air, standing alone in the hallway, silent and imposing. Thorin made no move nor attempted conversation. Thranduil had the same look in his eyes that he had seen in the throne room. During the negotiations, the sideways glances did not escape his attention either. The young dwarf had not been sure of why the Elvenking took such an interest in him when his concentration should have been on his grandfather's words. Now he once again shifted uncomfortably, and cleared his throat; a habit in the nerves of youth. But he stood straight, clasping his hands in front of him in formal stance.

Thranduil smiled, a small glint in his eye, and looked as one looks upon their home after returning from a long journey. It was as wistful as a summer's memory, but sad in a way that Thorin could not reconcile. Thranduil stepped closer and took Thorin's hand in his own, turning it and covering it with his other. Thorin felt a smooth weight on his palm.

"I had hoped this would come back to you," Thranduil said softly. The sure-footed, arrogant, stone-faced Elvenking was gone now. In his place was a strong but tender elf, given to genuine smiles and soft touches. Thorin felt at ease in his presence, but remained confused as the gentle fingers retreated, leaving a shining gold coin.

Thorin stared at the coin, and then looked to Thranduil.

"What is this?"

Thranduil swallowed hard, his eyes pained.

"Treasure," his voice was small, "Perhaps someday, it will come back to me," he left then, hidden tears of anger, impotence, and angst rolling down his cheeks. Thorin saw nothing but the flash of golden hair against silver robes, and then a vacant hall.

He looked down at the gold piece in his hand. It was from Erebor. He recognized the crest. How could Thranduil have this? From the markings, it was only recently cast. A payment from before the negotiations? A previous gesture of goodwill? Was it stolen? Perhaps his grandfather was correct and the elves did seek more than what was suitable. Thranduil had made it clear that he desired treasure. Although, the look on his face was not that of avarice. Should he tell his grandfather of this encounter? It did not seem necessary. The gold lay in his hand and the elves were departing. After a short deliberation, he left the hallway to pursue the mystery, but found no king nor elf. The stables were empty and the gates lonely. Perplexed, he returned to his chambers, turning the gold piece over and over again in his fingers as he walked.

The coin was left in an unimportant place among the trappings of Thorin's desk. He decided that he should return it to the treasury, putting it in his pocket one morning. But the day ran away from him and turned to evening. It was no matter, for it could be returned at any time, the bookkeepers would not think twice upon it. Though the next day, he forgot again. In the coming days, it was forgotten all together. And soon, Smaug would claim it among his hoard, along with the kingdom of Erebor as his reign of fire began. For one coin, fallen through a pocket hole would scarcely be noticed by anyone save for a dragon. Forgotten it was for one, but precious to another. And so it was left, settling underneath the fire drakes' scales as he slept, nestling itself in, waiting for time to pass.

➰➰➰➰➰

 

"Why does it hurt so much?"  
She cried to him.  
"Because it was real."  
He cried from within.


End file.
